


Take me somewhere nice

by moneden



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Peter, M/M, Peter Needs a Hug, Protective Wade, They both do, Unrequited Love, i still don't know how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moneden/pseuds/moneden
Summary: It seemed just as if the numbness had been at the highest peak and he was still scrambling pathetically at the very bottom.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Acrimony](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420164) by [moneden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moneden/pseuds/moneden). 



> This is a closer look at Spideypool from the verse of my previous fic "Acrimony".  
> I am really glad to see some people suggesting a sequel.  
> In my opinion it's better if you read "Acrimony" first, but it's not obligatory.  
> 

Peter remained still. The neon signs surrounding him were blurred by the alcohol in his blood, the intoxicating panacea strolling along the erythrocytes, oxygen and other components. And it still didn’t make him feel intoxicated enough. Peter could still feel, the tips of his fingers still itched to reach out, his heart was still beating and his eyes were still burning. It seemed just as if the numbness had been at the highest peak and he was still scrambling pathetically at the very bottom.

With broken nails,

Dirty hands,

And blood slipping between his fingers.

He was flailing, cursing at the gods, unable to crawl up. His fingers didn’t stick to the surface, each touch provided him an unimaginable pain. Peter still felt it, felt the pain.

Hunting for desensitisation felt like becoming a lonely wolf prowling around the infinitesimal prey. Although his senses were heightened, he couldn’t fight his feelings.

So he just threw himself into the incessant cycle of decrement. He opened the door knowing what he’s going to experience, whom he’s going to see. And he stepped inside, welcomed by the waves of agony clawing at his chest.

“You can get used to the certain type of pain”, but why was it excruciating?

Even though the streets of Queens soothed him with their bustle, his mind was still louder. Even though he was carried by the sea of anonymous people, he still felt alone.

Peter swam from one bar to another, head aching gradually more, just as if it pitied his heart.

While exiting one of the destinations, cold wind encountering the tousled hair and a warm face, his dilated pupils took in the sight of the neon words flickering lively. From there, he started the cycle once again. Feet dragged him on their own, taking irregular steps. Peter closed his eyes, momentarily feeling the chill of the night on his skin. He felt goosebumps forming on his body, petite shivers dancing on his back and the incredible tightness of his chest. Countless hours could be spent like that, or so he thought. Peter thought about the space without the merciless time, the space where he could just walk and trace insignificant steps whilst searching for the serenity. Despite the state of utter tranquillity appearing unattainable, the shy leftovers of his soul hoped and dreamt about it.

It was easier than calling it “happiness”.

 

***

 

When he opens his eyes, silence consumes him for breakfast. Darkness is in the middle of losing the battle to the rays of Sun creeping through the cheap blinds. Peter’s head hurts, so does his body, but he smiles. Because he can hardly hear his heartbeat. The lazy grin curls the corners of his lips and Peter chuckles dryly, hoarse voice resonating through the room, the reminiscence of the last alcohol tingling the back of his throat. Five crooked, bony fingers meet the texture of his hair and the brown locks fill the empty spaces in between them. The moment a long sigh escapes his lips almost as languidly as smoke, Peter notices something red with the corner of his eye. He freezes.

Taking a closer look seems like long hours and suddenly, there is a tight grip around his neck. It’s harder to breathe, the small ruby drop becomes larger, invades his vision, spreads around, starts crawling towards him, closer, closer, closer–

“Peter?”

_Peter_.

There’s an image of people laying around lifelessly. There are familiar faces staring at him, eyes telling him that he could have saved them. There’s a wicked smirk. He hears a gun shooting–

“Peter?”

_Peter_.

He only realises someone is shaking him by his shoulders a few moments later.  His heart is hammering vehemently against his ribcage, his breath is an irregular, sharp staccato and tears brim at his eyes.

“It’s me”

Deep voice. A feeling of leather covered palms holding his face. Red, black, white–

“Baby boy?”

Peter feels a long, particularly overwhelming shiver enveloping his body in an eerily soothing way.

“Breathe with me – in and out”

And he’s doing as he’s told, welcoming oxygen and leading carbon dioxide out. The puzzles slowly come together, he wipes the fogged mirror and sees Wade in front of him, masked. Before he speaks, he wonders briefly what Wade looks like – whether his nose is scrunched, eyes search his, lips are twisted. The older male seems to notice the obvious staring and Peter swears he can see the corner of his lips curling underneath the red fabric.

“Hey”, the depth of Wade’s voice is a splash of warm, cosy solace against his cool skin. It elicits a particular tingling somewhere under its surface and Peter can’t help but to feel his own lips curving into a weary yet genuine smile. It’s natural, automatic and his brain doesn’t register it until his cheeks commence aching slightly – when was the last time he smiled?

“Hey”, Peter answers with a weak voice. His throat feels dry, gravelly and suddenly, he wishes he could have Aunt May’s special spiced holiday warm milk. A hand goes north, pale fingers hover over his throat and he’s immediately met with Wade’s response – a mug with something that is supposed to imitate tea ( or so he guesses ).

“Wait– What are you doing in my house?”, a sudden realisation hits him and his eyes widen, a thrill of possible scenarios his intoxicated body doesn’t remember from the night before. The only thing Peter can remember is the red dot on the floor and he almost gags.

“Oh, right–”, Wade starts just as if it was more than normal for him to hand Peter his morning tea, “Funny story. Well, not exactly funny. Anywhoo. So, I was patrolling yesterday like a lonely wolf because, mind you, someone stood me out”, he knows the comment is supposed to ease the tension in his shoulders ( it magically works ), “And then I noticed this drunk boy heading towards your apartment. I wonder what you drank to walk into the door three times in a row, by the way”.

“Why were you near my place, anyway?”, a part of him is embarrassed for letting Wade witness his drunken state. But then there is the other one, bubbling somewhere within the depth of his heart at the care the taller man shows.

“I was worried about you, you didn’t show up. And white was curious what hot chick you picked up to forget about this fine pure Canadian meat”, Wade pats his thigh ( thick, all muscles and just– just _damn_ ) playfully to match his tone but Peter can somehow decipher the disappointment. It tones down the bubbling. “Turns out you decided to get trashed and you’re seriously clumsy”, he says and reaches his hand out, dangerously close to Peter’s face ( his breath _almost_ hitches up ), a finger tapping the adhesive bandage on his nose. “Your nose bled a little. It got mildly scratched after these three times you decided to have a hate-makeout with the door. I forgot to clean the floor though, sorry–”

“Thank you”, before Wade can say anything else, Peter cuts him in and watches him with the gaze so soft it’s almost painful. Just like the thought of the mercenary caring so much. Something undefined crawls towards Peter’s chest, settles down in his heart and tugs at its strings in a mellow way – but not as wry when he thinks about Bucky. _Fuck_.

Peter settles down the untouched tea and takes a deep breath, attempts to find the leftovers of alcohol in the peripheral of his mouth to numb him.

He doesn’t know if the bitterness comes from vodka or his own heart climbing up his throat, wishing to be spat out.

“Peter? Is it about him again?”, of course Wade knows. _Everyone fucking does_. Hell, probably even Bucky himself but he doesn’t have heart to tell Peter into his face to get the fuck out with his pathetic feelings. His shoulders slump and he hides his face in his hands. Maybe if he presses the palms hard enough, he won’t be able to breathe.

“You need to let go”, for a moment, a brief moment, Peter thinks he hears hurt in Wade’s voice. There are strong arms wrapping around him, scooping him into the familiar body heat and Peter is really, really lonely. Just like a week ago, he clings to Wade, nails sinking into the broad, muscular back.

“How?”, he whispers afraid, worn out and so, so terribly lonely.

“Let me take care of you?”

 

 

Peter’s heart skips a beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know:  
> \- how to properly use this site  
> \- write  
> \- write spideypool dkjgjdlgfd
> 
> \+ as always sorry for possible errors, I'm not an English pro and this is unbeta-ed and so bad-
> 
> BUT THANK YOU FOR READING ^_^  
> Have a beautiful day.


End file.
